I turned to see a small woman, wiry and wired, age well over sixty, hair spectacularly awry, skin creased and crisscrossed with wrinkles but untouched by anything other than age. Her hair was artificially blonde, her eyes chocolate truffles afloat in a dish of sour cream, her fingers a fistful of knotted twigs curled in arthritic arcs. She wore a royal blue housecoat that looked to be in its second decade of use and white silk slippers she could have worn to a ball. She was obviously irritated at being disturbed at that hour, even though it was after ten o’clock.
“I said what do you want?” she repeated in a sandpaper voice that had seen a lot of smoke and a lot of straight booze during a lot of late nights in a lot of dark bars.
I tried to look charming but it’s not my best guise. “My name is Tanner. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to—”
Her frown turned from surly to thoughtful. “I’ve heard of you, haven’t I?”
“Could be.”
“You got shot a year or so back. Along with some policemen.”
“That’s right.”
“You killed a policeman yourself that night, as I remember.”
I felt myself color. “Yes, I did.”
“So why aren’t you in jail?”
There was a lot I could have said to that, but what I chose to say was, “It was self-defense.”
“Says who?”
“The district attorney.”
She cocked her head in the universal mark of the skeptic. “Lucky you.”
I remembered my best friend’s body, its last seconds of life leaching toward death in a scruffy, vacant lot down by the bay from the bullet I’d put in his chest. And I remembered precisely how it felt to have done it. “Lucky me.”
She folded her arms across her wool-wrapped chest. “So why are you here? Am I being investigated for something?”
I raised a brow. “Should you be?”
Her eyes twinkled and blinked and squinted. “Only for my fantasies these days, I’m sorry to say.”
“I hear your fantasies have made you lots of money over the years. And lots of fans as well.”
She was pleasantly surprised and showed it. “You know my work, Mr. Tanner?”
She seemed likely to quiz me about it, so I stemmed the urge to lie. “I know your reputation.”
Her laugh was brassy and sarcastic. “You’re twenty years too late for my best moves, big boy—my reputation has mellowed to the consistency of tapioca. But in my prime, well, you could have burned your tongue on my reputation, don’t think you couldn’t. And a few other items as well.”
I smiled. “Too hot to handle, I guess.”
She tossed me a hip with the panache of a New Orleans stripper. “When I choose to be. But once in a while, if the right man comes along and treats me the way I like to be treated, I can be as smooth as Baileys Irish Cream—the best little tonic in the world.” Her look was mischievous enough to make me believe her.
Viveca Dane was a pistol and I was having fun. I began to wish she was my client instead of her more illustrious peer.
I gestured toward the foyer at her back. “Would you mind if I come in for a minute?”
“To do what?”
I opted for candor. “Talk about Chandelier Wells.”
Her mood darkened to the color of peat. “That bloated old bitch. What do you want to know that you couldn’t read in the Enquirer?”
“Whatever you’ve got to tell me.”
“How long have you got?”
I looked at my watch. “Two hours.”
“Hellfire, big boy. That won’t even get me through the third Bloody Mary.”
She backed into the building and motioned for me to join her. The house was silent and dark, an obedient ox waiting for permission to stir. We ambled through a narrow hallway and into a sitting room that seemed to serve as a public parlor. Viveca Dane flipped on a ceiling light and asked if I wanted some coffee. I said I did if it was no trouble. As reflexively as a blink, she said she was too old for most kinds of trouble, invited me to make myself at home, and said she’d return in five minutes after she’d slipped into something more comfortable. Among her other attributes, Viveca Dane had a graduate degree in Mae West.
“The flowers are real, by the way,” she said on her way out, referring to the spectacular floral arrangements sprouting out of ornate glass vases on three different occasional tables. “Courtesy of an anonymous admirer.” With that little hint of lubricity, she disappeared down the hall.
The room was low-ceilinged and the heavy velvet shades were drawn tight across the light, but it was somehow quite cozy nonetheless, a hive of memorabilia and art deco furnishings. The former included a row of framed book jackets above the sooty face of the mantel, most in the style of a risqué Norman Rockwell, and a host of framed photos of Viveca arm in arm with a variety of local luminaries, from Joe Alioto to Carol Doda to Jerry Garcia. A baroque frame displayed a letter from a famous New York publisher accepting what must have been her first book; another framed a fan letter from Erma Bombeck; a third held a portion of a page from a review in the August 22, 1979, Seattle Times that compared her work to Colette’s.
The furnishings were as assertive as the mementos. At least five lamps were in evidence, with shades ranging from fringed damask to stained glass. The tables were shiny with lacquer, each bearing a slightly different hue, rendering the light in the room subtle and elusive and no doubt flattering to Viveca Dane’s complexion. The couch and the chairs were tufted and tucked, the wall sconces were of brass and colored glass, and the hearth was tiled in a purple-and-black motif that resembled a sign of the zodiac. The overall sense was of flair once-removed, a museum rather than a homestead, a relic that had slipped from stylish to passé without the owner’s notice. But the aura of obsolescence vanished the minute Viveca Dane returned to the room.
She’d been gone fifteen minutes, not five, and the transformation was remarkable. Her hair was now a sculpted crown, courtesy of an indiscernible wig. Her face was as unmarred as a bust of white marble, her figure was petite and even provocative in snug slacks and a sweater of a dusky gray that offered a vale of décolletage. Her eyes gleamed like the cut glass in the lighting fixture that was twinkling above her head. In a quarter of an hour, Viveca Dane had dropped twenty years off her age and added two tons to her gravitas. I wondered if she gave lessons. Past her prime or not, she was clearly a force to be reckoned with. I began to take her seriously as a suspect.
She sat on the couch across from me and crossed her shapely legs. Her slippers had been replaced by boots of such soft leather they seemed to have melted around her ankles. “Coffee will be ready in a minute,” she said. “Do you take cream?”
“No, thanks.”
“I could make a Bloody Mary if you want one.”
“Not while I’m on duty. But thanks.”
“Is that chair comfortable enough for you?”
“It’s fine.”
“The reason I ask is that you seem ill at ease all of a sudden, Mr. Tanner.”
I laughed uneasily. “I think it’s because I have a feeling I’m not going to get the job done this morning.”
“What job is that?”
“Tricking you into revealing your deep-seated animosity toward Chandelier Wells.”
“Ha,” she cackled gleefully. “My animosity’s as deep-seated as Dolly Parton’s boobs.”
I felt myself blush. I tried and failed to remember whether any other sexagenarian had ever prompted a similar reaction. “I just meant that—”
“Chandelier is a lying, cheating, thieving bitch,” she surged on. “And that’s when she’s on her good behavior. Is that up-front enough for you, or should I elaborate?”
I grinned. “I really hate people who mask their true feelings. Come on, Ms. Dane. Tell me what you really think.”
She giggled. “You’re on to me, you rascal. I’ve hated the woman for more than a decade. Let me get the coffee.”
She left and returned a
fter some rattling around in the kitchen. In her absence, the smell of lavender threatened to overload my olfactory nerves. After my first sip of coffee, I realized she’d laced it with whiskey. Not suppressing a smile, I asked her what had happened between her and Chandelier more than a decade ago.
“That’s when she wrote her first book.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“On aesthetic grounds or something else?”
“Chandelier Wells stole my literary creation, which is to say my life’s work, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“How so?”
“My first book was set in Carmel and hers was in Monterey. My heroine was a lawyer, hers is a newswoman. My heroine’s sidekick was a cabbie; hers is a bus driver. My first plot involved the fashion industry; hers delved into the diamond business. My first title was Spike Heel; hers was Pendant. I could go on, but it will only depress me.”
“When was your first book published?”
“Nineteen seventy-seven. It was a national bestseller.”
“And Chandelier’s?”
“Ten years later.”
“Same publisher?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. My publisher has been in existence since the Civil War. It doesn’t print trash; not even profitable trash.”
“If she stole from you, did you ever think of suing her?”
“I not only thought of it, I did it. Copyright infringement, theft of intellectual property, passing off, intentional infliction of emotional distress—I sued the bitch for everything my lawyer could think of, and when he couldn’t think of enough, I got another lawyer.”
“And?”
Her nose wrinkled and her lip curled. “I got tossed out of court on my tight little ass. It didn’t even get to trial. I was sleeping with my lawyer at the time, which I think was part of the problem—he was more interested in the after hours than the nine-to-five. Ended up costing me fifty grand for an empty gesture. But, hell. It was fun while it lasted. I got to see her sweat, at least.”
“So after that her career flourished and yours declined?”
“In a nutshell.”
“Do you publish at all anymore?”
“Only in France. Two books a year. The French are the only people in the Western world who still possess a modicum of good taste.”
I waved at the room and its contents. “You don’t seem exactly hard up.”
“I invested my money wisely, mostly in real estate. I bought houses out in the avenues for fifty thousand bucks, cash, and now I rent them for three thousand a month. Also cash. Plus the French contracts provide me with thirty thousand a year in mad money. And I’ve known some generous men in my time.” She laughed dryly. “Though not lately, except for the poor addled idiot who sends all these flowers.”
I adjusted my position. “I have to ask you something, I’m afraid,” I said with a surprising degree of embarrassment.
“What is it?”
“Have you been making threats against Chandelier Wells?”
Her brow peaked like an alp. “What kind of threats are you talking about?”
“Bodily harm. Violent death. Murder and mayhem and assorted misfortunes.”
She looked at me more closely. “You’re serious, I believe.”
“Afraid so.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry that Chandelier has some terror on her plate at the moment. But, no. I’m not making threats. To her or to anyone else.”
“Can you think of someone who might be?”
“You mean except the poor schmucks who pay hard-earned money to read her wretched prose?”
I grinned. “Except them.”
“Well, she’s gone through lots of men, and she’s made a ton of money, and she’s backed some fairly extreme political causes, plus she’s a sour, evil person.” She reconsidered her list and smiled. “But I suppose you were speaking specifically.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Then no. I’m the likeliest suspect I know, but I have an alibi.”
“Which is?”
“My revenge against Chandelier is reserved for my memoirs.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Which will be published when?”
“When I’m dead and buried, Mr. Tanner. Which will be well into the next century if I have anything to say about it. And I believe I’ll have quite a bit to say, don’t you?”
Chapter 6
The women were there when I arrived at the restaurant and had managed to commandeer the best table in the place—I guess that’s the sort of skill you develop by dining out in New York on a regular basis. Enrico’s was loud and lively as always, and chichi and clean and efficient as not often of late until the recent makeover by the new management.
The weather had cooperated, so it was as good a day as occurs in the city in February, warm enough to dine alfresco, sunny enough to wear shades, and clear enough for the bay to sparkle like a blue bank of snow and the hills to be observed lurking on all sides like kindly chaperons. The complex smells from the kitchen and the carefree banter from the throng strolling by on the sidewalk added to the sense of perfection.
The only one of the women I’d met previously was Lark McLaren, but even if I hadn’t seen her at Chandelier’s, I’d have known she was the one who was local. Garbed in black from head to toe not excluding lips and fingernails, sheathed in long-sleeved and floor-length dresses that flattened every contour below the jawline, draped with capes and scarves of similar tints and functions, the two New Yorkers looked as if they had just come from a funeral of someone who didn’t matter very much. My faded corduroys and threadbare tweeds looked cutting edge in comparison to the Easterners’ monochromatic garb, which made me wonder why such high-powered women would choose to dress as similarly as sheep. As for Lark, she looked swell in a bright print dress that didn’t try to erase all evidence of her gender.
Although their outfits suggested they were twins, beneath their macabre couture the New Yorkers were distinctly different. Amber Adams, the agent, was large, buxom, and brash and wasn’t bashful about any of it. In contrast, Sally Rinehart, the editor, was slim to the point of emaciation, with chalk-white skin and straight, dark hair drawn back in a bun that made her look three times her age, which I guessed to be no more than thirty. Her skittish black eyes never seemed to light on anything for more than an instant, and her manner suggested the outside world was as potentially damaging as a peptic ulcer. The idea of Sally Rinehart imposing an editorial judgment on the deathless prose of Chandelier Wells was one of those concepts around which my mind had difficulty wrapping itself.
Whatever the women had been discussing clanked to an immediate halt when they noticed me. It took a while, since there was wine to be drunk and shrimp to be nibbled, but when I made it onto their radar, the three of them looked up expectantly, as if I were bringing an advance copy of Publishers Weekly. I hated to disappoint them, but my most creative contribution to the meal was going to involve a meat-loaf sandwich.
Amber gripped my hand like a lady wrestler the moment Lark introduced us, and her eyes roamed over me like a Sotheby’s appraiser’s—I don’t think I made the list for the next auction. Sally Rinehart made do with trying to pretend I was invisible.
After I took my seat, we exchanged small talk about the weather and the city. Amber found San Francisco a major disappointment on this trip, especially in the amenities at her hotel and the stock on hand in the new boutiques around Union Square. For her part, Sally loved every single thing about it, especially the new museum of modern art, which she’d visited the day before. Despite several provocations, I refrained from becoming either a jingoist or a cynic.
We placed our orders—the women each had a salad featuring various esoteric amendments and another eight-dollar glass of a Sonoma chardonnay; I had a turkey sandwich and an Anchor Steam, meat loaf not being featured for some reason, probably involving longevity.
�
�I take it all of you know why I’m here,” I began when we were comfy and cozy and slightly buzzed. Each of them nodded her head. “I haven’t come up with anything helpful so far, so I’m going to need a history lesson, provided there is one.”
The women exchanged looks. “History of what?” Amber Adams asked. “Or who?”
“Chandelier Wells,” I said.
“Boswell himself couldn’t do justice to that one,” Amber muttered sardonically, though loudly enough for all to hear.
I tried to stay in front of the agenda. “Before the first of the threatening notes arrived, was there any sign that Ms. Wells was creating trouble for anyone? Threatening them? Embarrassing them? Complicating their lives? Anything like that at all?”
The women looked at one another once again and once again let Amber take the lead. “If you’re talking about her books, then as far as I know the answer is no. If you’re talking about personal relationships, it’s an entirely different story.”
“What story is that?”
Amber shrugged. “Chandelier is aggressive, demanding, and ambitious, both as a writer and a businesswoman. She drives people hard and demands nothing short of total perfection and absolute loyalty.” Amber paused for a sip of wine. “What makes it tolerable for those of us on the receiving end, usually, is that Chandelier drives herself even harder than she does the rest of us.”
Sally Rinehart nodded a meek concurrence. Lark McLaren didn’t move a muscle. Apparently she had her own take on Chandelier and wasn’t about to go public with it.
Just then a cell phone rang. Amber and Sally looked at each other. Amber took hers out of her purse, flipped it open, pressed a button, and said, “Adams.”
I looked at Lark and Lark smiled indulgently. Just then another cell phone rang. This time Sally made the move for her purse, with the same result. And then it was Lark’s turn. For the next five minutes I was in the middle of an Altman film, with two and three people talking simultaneously, in incomplete sentences and cryptic jargon, about subjects that were mostly foreign to me:
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